


December 3: The Bigger They Are, The Harder They Fall

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: December (Christmas) Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom John, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, December Fanfic Challenge, Fluff, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Oral Sex, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Speaks French, Top Sherlock, day three, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 01:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16844131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: Sherlock tells Rosie a fairytale; John, Sherlock, and Rosie go out to cut down the perfect tree; and John decides on a new title for Sherlock.Basically lovey, fluffy, goo. I just love Christmas and seeing these two happy together.





	December 3: The Bigger They Are, The Harder They Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So when I started this fic a day challenge thing, I told myself I’d write 1,000-3,000 word a day. I’m incapable of such a thing once I get going. Enjoy day three of the Christmas challenge. :) sorry it’s a little late. 
> 
> As always, I so appreciate kudos and comments. 💕

Rosie is in a Fairytale phase.

It suits John just fine, he’d grown up loving fairytales. He loved the adventures and the magic, loved the endings and the morals learned without trying. What surprised him, however, is that Sherlock also loved fairytales.

He’s imagined that Sherlock liked to read science books as a child, or maybe books about pirates, but not fairytales. 

When John came home from a late shift at the clinic one night, he could hear Sherlock telling the toddler her bedtime story. He’s telling it dramatically and she is giggling and squealing with mirth. He takes the stairs up to Rosie’s room and stands in the doorway watching Sherlock.

Sherlock’s grabbed a flashlight in one hand and scooped up one of Rosie’s stuffed animals which he’s tucked under his arm. “Jack ran toward the beanstalk, ready to climb down, but the giant,” he pauses dramatically, “The giant, Watson, was not letting Jack get away so easily.” 

He jumpes up onto the corner of the bed, dropping his props to point a finger, “He yelled at Jack, ‘Come back here, thief! Thief!” 

“But Jack,” Sherlock says, jumping back to the floor and scooping up his props once more, “He was fast, so he just laughed and he started to climb down, racing as fast as he could. And when he got to the bottom he dropped the goose that lays golden eggs and he picked up the axe.” 

Sherlock looks around for a moment, before grabbing a play frypan off of the kitchen set in the room. “He chopped and he chopped,” Sherlock tells her, hitting the bed post with the plastic frying pan. “And his mother came out,” he grabs one of Rosie’s tagy blankets and loops it around his head like a veil, “‘Jack!’ His mother shrieked! ‘There’s a giant, Jack! A giant! He’s huge.’”

He drops the scarf and resumes chopping at the bedpost while Rosie watches in rapture. “But Jack just laughed again and said, ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall!’ He chopped and chopped, and when the giant was a mere fifty meters off the ground, his axe finally broke through the beanstalk.” 

Sherlock jumps up on Rosie’s bed again, “The giant tried to hold on,” he says, rocking unsteadily on his feet, “But it was no use, the beanstalk was falling and so was the giant. He fell to his death,” Sherlock says, collapsing backward onto the bed next to Rosie to peals of laughter from the child. “And Jack went that very day to buy his cow back. He and his mother lived with the cow happily ever after.” 

Rosie giggles and John’s heart swells as he watches her snuggle into Sherlock’s side, her cheeks pink from laughing, “Again!” 

“I’m afraid not, my dear Watson,” Sherlock says. “And don’t forget, Jack, though victorious, is still a villain. He is a thief and a murderer.” 

John clears his throat and both Sherlock and Rosie look up to see him in the doorway, “Daddy!” Rosie cries out.

“John,” Sherlock says in surprise, climbing out of bed and smoothing his shirt and trousers. It’s still a little new, this thing between them, and John adores Sherlock like this, soft and vulnerable, a touch insecure. “You’re early,” he accuses.

“Late, actually,” John says with a grin, leaning in to peck Sherlock on the lips as he walks past Sherlock to Rosie’s bed. He presses his lips to Rosie’s forehead, “Good night, little one.” He strokes her wispy curls back off her forehead. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

“G’Night,” she chimes back before peering around John at Sherlock, “Song, Lock?” she prompts. 

John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who blushes and looks between John and Rosie. “Perhaps tomorrow, bee,” he murmurs. 

Rosie’s bottom lip sticks out, “Song!” she demands. 

“What do you say,” John prompts, raising an eyebrow at her. 

She looks up at Sherlock, big blue eyes wide and pleading. “Pease, song.”

With a sigh, Sherlock moves to the edge of the bed, “close your eyes.” 

John stands and watches as Rosie obediently closes her eyes. Softly Sherlock starts to sing, “Dodo, l'enfant do, L'enfant dormira bien vite, Dodo, l'enfant do, L'enfant dormira bientôt.” Sherlock’s voice is low and soothing, and John is drawn in by his gentle baritone. Rosie’s breathing slows and her eyes remain closed as Sherlock finishes, “Tout le monde est sage dans le voisinage il est l'heure d'aller dormir le sommeil va bientôt venir.” 

The air around the room is silent as though Sherlock’s cast a spell. The last notes of the melody linger in the air and Rosie lets out a contented little sigh. 

Sherlock presses a kiss to Rosie’s head, “Bonne nuit, ma petite fille. Bonne nuit.”

They turn off the light and John walks downstairs in front of Sherlock, still imagining his singing. When they get to the living room, Sherlock continues past John to the kitchen so John follows behind. “That was lovely,” John tells him. 

Sherlock glances up from where he’s putting on the kettle. “Thank you. My grandmother was French. She only spoke French and my mother always sang to us in French. Truth be told, I think they were the only children’s songs she knew.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” John says before turning to pull out a tin of Sherlock’s favorite biscuits. 

Sherlock scoffs, “John, I speak a dozen languages.”

“Really?” he asks, surprised. 

The other man has stuffed a biscuit into his mouth but nods and starts to speak anyway, “French, German, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Serbian, Mandarin, Ukrainian, Swahili, Arabic, and Greek fluently. Then a handful of others well enough to get me around.”

“That’s incredible,” John tells him. 

Sherlock blushes and shrugs and John thinks he’s adorable. “It’s not all that hard when you have a fundamental understanding of the Romance and Slavic languages. I also learned Latin as a school boy, very helpful in language acquisition.”

John licks his lower lip, “So, do you know any French besides lullabies?”

“John,” Sherlock replies, with an eye roll, “I’m fluent in French. I told you. Why do you ask?”

He smirks and slides in front of Sherlock, bracketing Sherlock in his arms as he rests his palms against the counter behind him. He leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock’s ear and the other man melts against him, “It’s sort of sexy.”

“Only sort of?” Sherlock asks, his voice teasing and light now. 

“Mmh, very sexy,” John replies. 

“Lucky for you we spent holidays from school with my grandmother in the south of France. I might have picked up a thing or two from some local boys.”

They left the tea where it was and John dragged Sherlock into their bedroom where Sherlock spent the next hour whispering what John imagined were very filthy words. It might have been a French children’s book for all John knew, but it didn’t matter. By the end, John had determined that they should probably try to have sex with Sherlock speaking every language he knew, for science, of course. 

————————

The next morning when John woke up, Sherlock was already out of bed and he could hear two voices in the kitchen, one small, high, and babbling, the other low, soothing, and articulate. He joins them in the kitchen and Sherlock hands him a cup of coffee with a kiss on the cheek. 

Rosie is talking about trees excitedly, half the words make some semblance of sense and the other half don’t. 

“Slow down, love,” John says. 

She huffs impatiently at being misunderstood and turns her eyes to Sherlock, “There’s twees. Lock says we can go.” She pauses for a moment, then tacks on, “pease,” for good measure. 

He looks up at Sherlock for clarification, “Watson would like to go fetch a Christmas tree today,” Sherlock fills in for him. 

“Ah,” he swallows a sip of coffee. “Well, my darling, that can be arranged.”

Rosie claps her hands and John adds, “After you’ve finished breakfast.”

Rosie tucks in to her oatmeal and says, “the magic fowest.”

John looks over at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows in question. 

Sherlock flushes slightly, “I was simply telling Rosie that when I was her age, my parents used to take me to a place where we cut our own trees. The forest was a place set out of time and space, it was-”

“The magic fowest,” Rosie says again. 

“Magical,” Sherlock says with a nod. 

“We should call your parents,” John says, “see if they’d like to have us for supper after we’ve picked our tree.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Sherlock starts. 

“On your parents?”

“On you and Rosie. My parents-”

“Adore Rosie,” John finishes. “She’d love to see them.” He turns to Rosie, “You’d love to see nana and pop-pop Holmes, wouldn’t you?” 

“Nana and Pop-pop!” she exclaims, clapping her hands again. “Yes, daddy.”

“Nana and pop-pop?” Sherlock asks in befuddlement. 

John looks up at him, “sorry. Do you mind? I should have asked, but neither Mary or I have parents to be her grandparents. I thought it would be nice for her.”

Sherlock blinks at him and is strangely mute long enough that John starts to worry. 

“Sorry, I’ve overstepped. Your mum seemed to think it was a good idea,” he stammered. “It doesn’t matter. I should have asked you first, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Sherlock says, reaching out and touching his hand, “No, it’s fine. It’s...” he trails off, “Fine.”

John nods a bit uncertainly, but Rosie is finishing her oatmeal and sliding out of the booster on her chair. “Bring your bowl to the sink,” John instructs her as he brings his own cup to the sink. 

Rosie obeys and John glances at Sherlock, “would you help her get dressed while I get ready?”

“Of course.”

They go through the motions of getting dressed and ready, Sherlock has already called in a favor to Mycroft to borrow an suv for the day. They strap Rosie into her booster seat and head off. 

When they arrive at the Christmas tree farm, Rosie is practically bouncing in her seat. John has to admit Sherlock was right, it is beautiful. 

It isn’t just a place to buy a tree, it’s also a local market, it has horse drawn sleighs, and it has snow. Rosie runs ahead of them into the market, there’s a corner set up with hay for children to play in and she makes a beeline for it. 

John slips his fingers through Sherlock’s, “this was a great idea.”

Sherlock hums and gives him a pleased grin. “I loved this place when I was a child.”

In his mind's eye, John can see it, little Sherlock bounding about, exploring. His eyes lighting up when he sees the horses and sleigh, his excitement to pick their tree. He squeezes the other man’s hand. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

They wander through the different booths and buy some local honey and maple syrup, as well as a lovely topaz necklace for Sherlock’s mum and some pipe tobacco for his dad. Sherlock adds in a couple caramels and hands one to Rosie when she comes running over to them. “Chew it carefully,” he warns. 

She nods and pops it in her mouth. “Time for ow twee?” Rosie asks around a mouth full of candy. 

“Sure,” Sherlock tells her happily. 

They climb onto a sleigh that pulls them out into the forest of pine trees and the sounds of people die away for the most part. Rosie watches enraptured from her place between John and Sherlock, tucked under the lap blanket. 

It’s beautiful, John can’t help but think. It’s quiet and the snow is covering the branches of the trees. The only sounds are the sounds of the horses hooves on the ground and the sleigh gliding through the snow. 

Eventually Sherlock calls out, “here is good.” The man reigns in the horses and they slide to a stop. 

“The sleigh comes around every twenty minutes. Don’t forget your saw and axe off the back.” He turns and grins over his shoulder at them, “Have fun!”

Sherlock climbs down first and John hands him Rosie before climbing off and grabbing their tools. “So, how does this work?” John asks, looking around at the trees surrounding them as the sleigh and horses carry on.

Sherlock is watching Rosie totter through the snow into the grove of trees and says, “We pick a tree, then we cut it down, then we drag it over to this path and when the sleigh comes back around they’ll collect us and the tree. They’ll wrap it and load it onto the top of our car for us, then we just have to get it into our flat.”

“Seems easy enough,” John says as Sherlock and he follow Rosie through the snow. She’s laughing in delight to herself as she boops tree branches and watches the snow collapse to the ground.

Sherlock glances over at him and John catches his amused smirk, “You’ve never gone to cut down a tree, have you?”

“No...” John trails off uncertainly.

Sherlock laughs and takes his hand, “You’re going to love this, then.” Then he shouts to Rosie, “Pick a tree, Watson! What one would you like to take home?”

Rosie turns and looks at them, looking for all the world like a fluffy pink marshmallow in her snowsuit. “Any twee?”

Sherlock says yes before John can say anything else, like tell her which color ribbon to look for so they don’t end up paying a fortune for a tree that will only last four weeks. 

Rosie grins and takes off again, they follow her around the grove of trees, round and round, it seems like ages that they’re weaving their way through the pine trees. “She’s very determined to find the right tree,” John notes.

Sherlock nods, “She’s very persistent. Clever girl,” he remarks fondly. 

The corner of John’s lips quirk up in response to the affection in Sherlock’s voice and he tugs the other man closer so he can wrap his arm around Sherlock’s waist. 

Sherlock lets out a surprised huff, but melts into John as soon as their bodies touch, his arm looping around John’s back. 

John’s turning slightly to look at Sherlock, intent on kissing the other man in this beautiful, magical place when Rosie crows with delight, “My twee!”

John and Sherlock turn to look at the tree she’s standing in front of and his jaw drops.

It’s massive.

It’s the only way John can think to describe it. The tree is huge, it must be at least 10 feet tall, it’s branches are full and lovely, it’s a beautiful tree. “Sweetheart, I don’t think-“

“Don’t be dull, John,” Sherlock chides, “It’s perfect.” He pulls away from John and moves to stand next to Rosie, making a show of inspecting the tree, “Excellent choice, Watson.”

John walks over to the tree and lifts the price tag tied around the tree with a lovely red ribbon and feels like he’s going to pass out. “Sherlock, absolutely not. We cannot spend this much on a Christmas tree.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Don’t be such a drama queen. This tree is perfect, Rosie has excellent taste.” Rosie nods at John in agreement.

“But Sherlock-“ John starts again.

“No, no buts. This is the first tree Rosie has ever picked out for Christmas, the price doesn’t matter. We just solved that jewel thief case last week. We were paid very handsomely for that, if you recall, and what’s the point of money if it’s not to enjoy things in life.” He looks at Rosie, “Will this tree make you happy, Watson?”

Rosie looks up at both of them with big, shining eyes, “Yes!”

“There you have it,” he says, then he presses his chilled lips to John’s in a quick peck. “Let us give her this.”

John sighs, “Yes, alright. Fine.”

Sherlock grins and pecks John’s lips once more before gesturing to the snow, “Rosie, we have to dig the snow out from around the base.” Rosie drops to her knees and John and Sherlock follow suit, digging through the snow to find the trunk of the tree. They reach it eventually and John’s knees are cold and soaked and he grunts as he stands. 

“Rosie, you need to stand clear while daddy cuts the tree,” Sherlock instructs, gesturing for John to get the saw. 

“No. I cuts the twee,” she says, her lower lip sticking out. 

“No-“ Sherlock starts before John lays a hand on his arm.

“How about Rosie and Daddy do it together, hmm?” John asks reasonably. “Maybe Sherlock will hold the tree steady and we can work together.”

Rosie considers for a moment, her tiny lips pursed before she gives a nod. 

“Right, come on,” John says, “Back on the ground under the tree.” They get under and he points at the blade, “Don’t touch this part, it’s sharp, got it?”

She nods seriously. 

“Okay,” he lines the saw up with the trunk of the tree, “Hold the handle with me,” he instructs and Rosie’s gloved hands join his. “Ready? Pull.” They drag the saw across the wood and Rosie emits a cry of unbridled glee. “Push.” John instructs and they set up a rhythm of push and pull, push and pull, of the saw across the wood. 

After about fifteen strokes of the saw, Rosie gets bored and scrambles out from under the tree to make a snow angel. John picks up his pace, endeavoring to keep his saw in the same groove. “You know,” John says between grunts as he tries to saw through the trunk. “I thought cutting down a tree would be romantic.” Sherlock chuckles and John goes on, “I imagined this to be idyllic, but it’s mostly wet and cold and a pain in the-”

“Bottom,” Sherlock supplies before John can say something else. 

“Yes. That,” he says, gritting his teeth as he saws, “I’m almost through,” he warns. 

“Don’t worry I won’t let it fall on you,” he’s assured. 

He feels the tree shift and the blade loosen when the saw goes through, “Done.” 

“Slide out. Carefully, please.” Once John is out and they have their eye on Rosie Sherlock lets their tree topple away from them. 

Rosie claps and shouts, “the bigger they fall!”

“That’s right, Watson. The bigger they are the harder they fall.” Sherlock praises.

Sherlock and John drag the tree back to the road, with Rosie taking the lead, holding the very top of the tree. It’s loaded onto the sleigh and packed up just as Sherlock had told him it would be. 

John smiles, thinking this may just have to become a new tradition. 

————————————

They go to Sherlock’s parents for dinner and have to turn down the invitation to stay multiple times. By the time they get back to Baker Street it’s nearly half six. Getting the tree up the stairs is quite an ordeal, Mrs. Hudson pulls Rosie into her flat while John and Sherlock curse at the tree. 

“Yes,” John grunts, “sure. Give Rosie what she wants.”

“Are you really begrudging your child a Christmas tree because the stairs in our flat are narrow?” Sherlock asks incredulously, even as a branch catches on a stair and the tree slips backward. 

“No. I’m just saying a smaller tree would have been-” he pauses as a branch catches and snags his jumper. “Damn it,” he grumbles. “I like this jumper.”

“No one else does,” Sherlock replies. 

“You’re a tit,” John snaps. 

“I’m just telling you the truth.” They manage the last four steps and then they are presented with the challenge of getting it through the narrow doorway. 

“For fuck’s sake,” John gripes. “Imagine if they hadn’t wrapped it in the netting we’d be doomed.”

With much heaving and grunting, they finally manage to get the tree inside. They get it set up in the tree stand and trim the lower branches off so they’ll have room for presents underneath, then they go down and fetch Rosie. 

Mrs. Hudson joins them as they put on lights and ornaments. There’s laughter and general merriment as they deck their tree and his irritation from bringing the tree in dissipates. This moment is one he’d always longed for, and this is the family he’d always imagined having when he was a little boy. 

Once they’ve finished with all of the ornaments (moving several dozen up from where Rosie has positively packed ornaments on the bottom fifth of the tree) they kiss Mrs. Hudson good night and put Rosie to bed. 

When they come back downstairs, Sherlock turns off all of the lights except the Christmas tree. Sherlock reaches for John’s hand, “Want to do something I always used to do as a little kid?” he asks. 

John smiles at him, “Yes.”

Sherlock tugs him over to the Christmas tree, then lays down on his back and skootches under the tree. John follows suit and lays with his shoulder brushing against Sherlock’s. 

“I used to love laying under the tree,” Sherlock says, his voice soft and wistful. “I’d do it for hours.”

John stares up at the lights flickering through the branches and is filled with a sense of peace. 

“I’d imagine I was outside, looking up at the stars under a canopy of tree branches. I’d imagine adventures, and magic,” he swallows, “and love.”

John turns his face to look at the other man and Sherlock turns to look at him, too. “I’d always imagined having a warm family when I was a kid. Especially at Christmas. I imagined putting up a tree with people who loved me, I imagined laughter and joy.” He reaches over and takes Sherlock’s hand in his, “Tonight all I could think was that I’ve got all I’d ever dreamed of as a child.”

He watches as a tear tracks down Sherlock’s cheek, “I’ve gotten what I dreamed of as a kid, too.”

John leans over and kisses him softly, once then a second time for good measure. 

Sherlock reaches up and cups John’s cheek in his palm and John’s heart melts. There’s something reassuring about that gesture. Maybe it’s his giant hands holding his face, maybe it’s just the way longing seems to be transmitted through touch with Sherlock, but whatever the reason, John loves it. 

Sherlock carefully rolls, avoiding banging the lower branches of the tree, and settles on top of John before sealing his lips firmly against his. John rubs his fingers over Sherlock’s shoulder blades and the other man sighs against him. “I love you,” Sherlock whispers. 

“I love you, too,” he strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “With my whole heart.”

“That’s a lot of heart,” Sherlock says with a grin. 

“Mmhmm,” John replies absently, still combing his fingers through the other man’s hair. 

“Want to do something I never imagined doing under the Christmas tree?” Sherlock asks. 

John raises his eyebrows, “What did you have in mind?”

Sherlock grins devilishly and slides down John’s body. John’s cock perks up slightly in interest. 

“Just relax,” Sherlock instructs. “Enjoy the lights.” Clever fingers work open his button and zip, then free his mostly flaccid cock from his pants. John shivers, Sherlock’s the only lover he’s ever had who wants anything to do with his cock before it’s entirely hard. 

Sherlock’s warm hand wraps lightly around him, stroking once slowly from root to tip. “You’re lovely,” he says and John blushes even as a smile tips up the corner of his lips. 

Then Sherlock’s lips are moving over him, kissing at the head of his cock, tongue lazily tracing patterns against his shaft. John hums, hips shifting as he feels himself start to harden. 

The other man’s mouth opens around the head of his cock, drawing him into his wet heat. He massages his frenulum with his tongue before working it under his foreskin. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and stares up at the lights on the tree, feeling warm, and safe, and free all at once. 

Sherlock draws back and presses a kiss to the tip of his cock before stroking leisurely up and down his spit-slicked shaft. “I love you,” Sherlock says softly, with such sincerity that John can barely contain the feeling in his chest.

He’s about to respond when they hear a little voice shouting from upstairs, “Daddy! Lock!” 

They groan in tandem and John lifts his head to look down at the other man. 

“Lock!” Rosie cries out, “Daddy!” 

“I’ve got her,” Sherlock says, standing up from between John’s legs. “Probably just a little nightmare.”

John nods and wills his cock back down, “Yeah, thanks.”

“Love you,” Sherlock says as he heads out of the room and John can hear his feet treading up the stairs. 

John can hear Sherlock’s voice rumbling soothingly to Rosie upstairs, he looks up at the lights for a few more minutes before pulling himself out from under the tree once more. He looks around at the total mess their living room has become; ornaments, garland, boxes, and ribbons are positively everywhere. It’s a complete disaster, not a single clear space. And he can’t help but be glad for it. 

Arms are wrapping around his waist and he jumps a little before settling back against the other man’s chest. He trails his fingers over Sherlock’s strong forearms and let's most of the weight and tension in his body relax into Sherlock. “I love you, too,” he says softly. “I could never have imagined that you’d want this back in the old days and now I can’t imagine doing this with anyone but you.”

Sherlock hums softly at John, his arms squeezing him tighter. 

“I was thinking,” John mumbles, steeling all of his courage. 

“Oh dear,” Sherlock teases, “I do hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

John laughs, “I’m trying to be serious here, you twat.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says but John can hear the smile in his voice, “continue, then.”

“Maybe Rosie shouldn’t call you Lock,” John says slowly, hoping the other man will make the leap for him. 

“Well, eventually we’d like to make the switch to Sherlock,” he says chuckling. “It’s a bit much, r’s are quite difficult for her at the moment.”

“I was thinking something other than Sherlock,” he replies, swallowing nervously. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Papa, maybe?” John ventures. 

Sherlock freezes behind him, his arms locking around John’s waist. “Really?” he asks, and his voice sounds tense, like something is about to break. 

John nods, glad he doesn’t have to look at Sherlock. “If you want.”

“If I want?” Sherlock asks. “Of course I...” he chokes out. “But I’m not...”

“Yeah, you are,” John says. “In every way that matters. You love her as much as I do, she’d be lucky to have you for a dad.”

“John, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say yes,” John says, turning to face the other man. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says without hesitation. “Of course, yes.” His smile is radiant enough to make the Christmas tree look dim. 

“Good.” He places a peck on Sherlock’s lips sealing the deal. “Then, father of my child,” John teases, “take me to bed.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and when he opens them, tears are glistening there. “I never imagined I’d be a father.” He swallows, “But I always wanted to be.”

John can’t think of any words to say to him, can’t hope to express what Sherlock means to him, to them. He kisses him instead. 

When Sherlock draws back he takes a shaking breath, “Bed?”

“Definitely yes,” John replies. 

Sherlock tugs him along to their room and they undress themselves and crawl under the covers. They spend a long time simply kissing and touching one another’s skin. Hands brush gently and tenderly over scars and old wounds as if they have the power to heal, and maybe they do, John thinks. 

When John turns to grab the lube, Sherlock groans, immediately spreading his legs, but John shakes his head. “Can you...?” he asks trailing off and holding out the bottle to Sherlock. 

Sherlock blinks at him, they switch off but it’s far more usual for John to top. “You’re sure?”

John nods, “Please. I just need to feel you tonight.”

Sherlock kisses him and accepts the bottle. He nudges John until he rolls over onto his stomach, then he works a pillow under his hips. John rests his head on his arms and Sherlock places a kiss at the top of his spine as his dry fingers delve between John’s buttocks to brush over his hole. 

John sighs and lets his body relax completely, every ounce of tension dissipating. 

Sherlock coats his fingers with lube and rubs wet circles around John’s hole. 

“That’s lovely, darling,” John tells him. 

Sherlock presses a kiss to his hair in response and lets part of his torso drapenacross John’s body. 

He hums at the pleasant weight of the other man across his back, grounding him as Sherlock presses one finger inside of John. It always takes him by surprise, how long Sherlock’s fingers are, and he shudders as that long, dexterous finger works its way inside of him. 

“John,” Sherlock pants hot against his shoulder. “You feel so good.”

John smiles, “you too.”

Sherlock presses his finger in and out, slowly stretching him. 

“More,” John tells him softly, the other man always waits for John to ask. He’s so careful with him, so gentle, John’s never known love like this. 

Sherlock’s fingers line up with one another and he’s carefully stretching John’s hole to allow both of them entrance. 

He spreads his legs wider, grinding his erection into the pillow. “Yes,” he groans. “Fuck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mouths wetly at John’s shoulder, mouth working over the hideous scar there. The tissue and nerve endings are strangely sensitive and Sherlock’s lips send shocks racing down his spine and straight to his groin. 

“Mmm,” he hums, “shit, that’s good.”

The other man nods against his shoulder. John can feel Sherlock’s cock pressing insistently against his side, his hips making tiny, abortive thrusts to give him some relief. It’s hot as hell. 

Sherlock crooks his fingers inside John’s body, searching, searching for long moments until he finds it. John groans and buries his face in his arms, “yes there,” he grunts. “Fuck Sherlock, touch right there.”

Sherlock’s panting roughly against his shoulder as he strokes that most intimate place inside of John. “You are perfect,” Sherlock whispers, and John could cry at the sincerity in every syllable. 

He’s spent his whole life trying to be perfect for people, trying to be good enough. And here he is with the man who has more cause than anyone to hate him but instead chooses to love him, to love his every flaw. 

“I love you,” he chokes out. 

Sherlock’s fingers spasm inside of John, “I love you, too, John.”

“I know,” John whispers back, thinking for the first time in his life that it’s true, he does know. What he has with Sherlock is the first time he’s truly known that he is loved, that he’s understood what it’s supposed to mean. 

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs against his skin. 

“Another,” John asks.

Sherlock pulls his fingers out and John hears him squirting more lube onto his fingers before three fingers are working their way in. “Yes,” John hisses. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock replies. 

John’s body aches with the need for Sherlock to be inside of him, the need for Sherlock to be over and around him, the need to be consumed and made whole. The feelings are huge and terrifying but John gladly abandons himself to them. 

“I’m ready,” he gasps. 

“Are you sure?” the other man questions, scissoring his fingers inside of John. 

“I’m sure. Please Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulls out his fingers and John can feel him trembling as he slicks up his cock. 

John turns his head, resting his cheek on his arm as he looks at the man he loves more than life itself. “Alright?”

“Fine,” he replies. “I just...” he trails off and waves a hand vaguely. 

John smiles, “me too.”

Sherlock grins and pecks a kiss on his lips before moving so his body covers John’s, pressings him into the mattress. His cock presses between John’s buttocks and John arches, gasping and spreading for him. “Inside,” he begs. 

One of Sherlock’s hands is between them then, lining up his cock with John’s hole. 

“Yes,” he growls, “fuck, baby, yes.”

Sherlock drops his forehead to John’s spine as he slowly pushes in. 

John stretches to accommodate the other man, floating up, up, up on endorphins. 

Finally Sherlock is fully seated and his hands slide up John’s arms to lock with his fingers. 

“Move,” John whispers, “love me.”

Sherlock lets out a soft wail at that, moving his hips in long, leisurely rolls. 

“Yes,” John murmurs. “That’s it, sweetheart, show me how you love me.”

Sherlock mouths at John’s shoulders as he presses in again, deep and smooth, filling the pit of John’s belly with fire as his cock runs against the pillow with Sherlock’s motions. “Don’t stop,” he groans. 

The other man nods and John can feel the peaks of his nipples pressing and rubbing against his back. He groans and spreads his legs further, tilting his hips back toward Sherlock. The tilting does the trick and Sherlock’s rubbing over his prostate on every thrust. 

John’s body clenches tighter around Sherlock and he cries out in ecstasy. Sherlock’s hands grasp his tighter and his hips move quicker as though he can’t quite help himself. “That’s it,” John encourages. “Deeper,” he begs. 

One of Sherlock’s hands moves to his hip, reangling John’s hip just a touch and John’s entire body ignites on fire. “Fuck, love, there.”

Sherlock’s fingers grasp tightly at John’s hip, tight enough that he’ll probably leave a bruise. “John,” he grunts, “please, I can’t last much longer.”

“Almost there,” John promises him, rolling his hips and frotting against the pillow. 

“John,” Sherlock begs, voice tight with desperation.

“Tell me you love me,” he pleads. 

“John,” he groans, “my John.” It’s almost enough, John’s thighs are shaking and tensing. “I love you.”

That’s all it takes, the sincerity in the other man’s voice is all he needs to hear . John’s over the edge, painting the pillow with his release and Sherlock’s toppling over right behind him. 

When they’re coming down from their highs, Sherlock tucks John’s arms under his body and wraps his arms around him too. “John Hamish Watson, I love you more than I thought I could love anything.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love you, too,” John murmurs back, “As much as I’d ever hoped I could love and be loved by anyone.”

Eventually they draw apart long enough to get cleaned up, then fall asleep in one another’s arms, just where they’ve always dreamt of being. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Sarah_Dote for the French edits!💕


End file.
